


Sugar and Spice

by Babydollchan, Cobalt_Bleu, flecksofpoppy



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Fluff, JeanMarco Gift Exchange, M/M, holiday fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-03 00:20:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5269472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Babydollchan/pseuds/Babydollchan, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cobalt_Bleu/pseuds/Cobalt_Bleu, https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Welcome to the seven day countdown until sign-ups close for the JM Gift Exchange on November 29! To help bolster sign-ups, this week we’ll be posting nightly installments of a JM holiday fic thought up by cobalt-bleu, babydoll-chan and flecksofpoppy that takes place over seven days based on Cobalt’s <a href="http://jmgiftexchange.tumblr.com/">ADORABLE artwork we used for the blog banner</a>. Enjoy!</p><p>
  <strike>If you'd like to sign up, click here: <a href="https://goo.gl/8AnX5E">https://goo.gl/8AnX5E</a></strike>
</p><p>
  <strike>Sign-ups close on Sunday, November 29 at 11:59pm EST!</strike>
</p><p>Sign-ups are now closed! Thanks to everyone who signed up, and we look forward to seeing all the awesome gifts this year! <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's one week until Christmas, and Jean has decided once and for all that he hates his life.

It’d all started the summer after his first year of college, when he’d had a pivotal, terrifying moment and realized he had no idea what he wanted to do. While he had enough sense to take a break, his alternative plan definitely didn’t involve ending back up in Trost on his mom’s couch; at least not for more than a week. 

And certainly not a week that turned into a month, and a month that turned into a summer, then autumn, of him playing more World of Warcraft than going outside. 

This continued until his mother intervened with “great news”—that she’d found him a job “opportunity” through a friend with several essential pieces of information:

It was a temporary job. 

For the holidays. 

At the mall.

Of course, it was either accept, or find his own place to live if he didn’t start doing something remotely useful with his time (in her words). However, paying rent and cooking for himself sounded a lot worse than working part-time while living at home until he figured his shit out.

Nonetheless, it's now official: Jean Kirschstein hates his admittedly pathetic life. Every word he hears himself utter has become a sheer, embarrassing brand of agony to which he's simply succumbed. He imagines that this is what prison does to the human spirit—a true tragedy and waste of his intelligence and talents.

“We have a great lotion that'll drive your boyfriend wild!” 

The hapless woman who's entered the Bath and Body Works on a quiet Sunday morning looks a little taken aback at Jean's shrill voice.

The entire mall is awash in multicolored lights and musty decorations that Survey-Scout Corp. (corporate mall owner and employer of half of Trost's population) have pulled out every year since Jean was five when he'd come with his mother to visit Santa.

The woman standing in front of him hasn't replied, and she's now giving him a critical look, narrowing two vibrant blue eyes. 

“Boyfriend?” she echoes.

Jean assumes that she's being skeptical of his flattery—not that he's got that on his mind right now exactly, since he's way behind on his monthly sales quota—and decides to bolster her ego. 

Nothing like a little old-fashioned male attention to get the job done.

He grins, cocking a hip and resting his hand there, straightening to his full height. “Of course!” he continues. “He'll treat you like a queen.”

The diminutive blonde girl looks nonplussed, taking a step back and outwardly rolling her eyes. “My _girlfriend_ already does treat me like a queen, thanks.” 

Jean stammers, the smile disappearing from his face. “Um...” 

There goes another potential sale... and that leaves him with exactly 30 bottles of special edition gingerbread-scented lotion he's supposed to sell in the next seven days.

“Wow,” she says, surveying him with outright pity now, “you're kinda desperate, huh?”

“No!” He frowns, crossing his arms defensively and scowling. “I'm just trying to be nice.”

The girl rolls her eyes again with a long-suffering sigh. “Just don't assume everybody's straight,” she says, finally cracking a small smile. “Okay, fine, I'll take two bottles of that gingerbread stuff. It actually smells kind of good.”

Jean fights the urge to look grateful, and just nods sagely, as if he that's exactly how he expected this conversation to go.

The store is quiet as he rings her up, save the god awful holiday soundtrack from corporate that contains precisely twelve songs on loop; it's been playing since the first day of December.

Jean is relatively sure at this point that if he could go back in time and put Mariah Carey out of her misery before she could ever sing about how she didn't want a lot for Christmas, he would.

“Catchy song!” 

Jean can't fight the groan down that wants to issue from his throat, and it's his turn to give her an incredulous look; she just stares back at him with a cheerful expression.

“Thanks...” he says, looking down at the name on the credit card he's swiped, “Christa. Uh, enjoy your lotion.”

She smiles—she’s pretty in that pure-as-the-driven-snow way—and she closes her painfully cute wallet that has a little crown on it.

“It's actually for my girlfriend,” she explains, tucking her receipt into the festive green shopping bag emblazoned with the store logo. “She'd eat gingerbread men all year if she could.”

Jean smiles, shrugging a little, and nods. “Well, thanks. Have a good day,” he says, but then remembers that he's on the security camera even though his manager's on break, and cringes before forcing himself to speak. 

“Also,” he recites in painful, scripted monotone, “if you'd like to sample one of our fresh pine body mists that are currently on special, three for ten, you'll find it's quite...” he swallows in mortification, _“delightful.”_

“Hi, Marco!” comes a cheerful shout from Christa just as Jean is biting out the last word, and he immediately flushes.

Of course— _of course_ —the guy that works across the way in the Men's Wearhouse has to come in right as he's telling some girl that he's offering “delightful” body mists on special.

But wait, this Christa person knows...

 _Marco,_ who, up until now, has been known to Jean as Hot Guy With Freckles In Well Tailored Suit.

“Hey!” Hot Guy With Freckles—Marco—waves cheerfully, nodding. “Christa, right?”

She smiles, shifting with her bag and looking up at Marco who's at least a foot taller. “Sort of, but I've been going by Historia recently. That's actually my real name.”

“Oh, cool,” he says, unfazed and polite, not even asking why. “Are you going to meet Ymir?”

“Yeah,” she smiles charmingly, “she goes on break in a few minutes, right?”

“Yup,” Marco confirms. “I'm due back in fifteen myself, but I figured I'd stop by to, um...” He looks over Historia's shoulder at Jean unexpectedly, and their eyes meet.

“I'm in the market for some body products!” he declares, his voice an octave higher than Jean's ever heard it when Marco's come in before, which is surprisingly often. 

Although Jean knew of the Bodt family vaguely as a teenager—you couldn't go anywhere in the tri-county area without meeting a Bodt—he and Marco never shared enough third person connections to actually meet.

What he _had_ figured out, though—mostly through overhearing Marco's conversations with his coworkers—is that the guy has seven sisters (Jean knew there were a lot, but he didn't know it was that many), which would explain his frequent gift expeditions at the store.

“Who's Ymir?” Jean blurts out, saying the first thing he can think of so he can stop staring at Marco like an idiot.

Historia snorts and raises at eyebrow at Marco. “She's my girlfriend, actually, and works at the same store as Marco.”

“Oh!” Jean exclaims, feeling silly and fighting down the blush in his cheeks. “Um, she works at Men's Wearhouse, too?”

“How'd you know that?” Historia asks, turning to focus her attention back on Jean curiously.

Jean falters, his eyes widening, and he freezes; he just admitted he knows exactly where a guy whose name he doesn’t even know works. Because that’s not creepy.

Mariah Carey is screaming about wanting only one thing for Christmas, everything smells like a nightmare made of gingerbread lotion, and he'd be perfectly fine right now with death by fairy light strangulation.

“Oh, Jean's seen me around here a lot,” Marco laughs, and the moment passes without incident.

Jean exhales before realizing that neither of them seemed to have even taken much notice of the fact that he knew where Marco worked.

_Stop acting weird. You're a cool guy, so be cool._

The best he can muster is a deep breath, though.

...Wait, Marco knows his name?

“So,” Marco starts warmly, turning to Jean with a dazzlingly adorable smile, “have you got any more of that gingerbread lotion?” 

The word “adorable” did _not_ just pass through Jean’s mind.

Nonetheless, he blinks dazedly as Historia departs to go meet her suit-selling girlfriend, and all he can think is two things:

1\. He hopes Marco buys all the lotion he needs to sell.  
2\. How is anyone allowed to look that good in a suit?

“Maybe you can try some on me to see if I like it?” Marco sounds slightly mystified as Jean just stares.

There's a short silence filled by some new Christmas song Jean suddenly can't place despite the fact he's probably heard it a hundred times by now, and he finally forces his mouth to work as he pulls himself out of the gravity of Marco's eyes.

_What’s your problem? Get your shit together, Kirschstein._

“O-okay,” he finally stammers, gathering his wits and forcing himself not to think about the fact that he's about to rub some stinky lotion onto this guy's wrist.

Marco just smiles again, and Jean prays he doesn't look too much like a startled reindeer in the headlights of an errant airplane.

“If I like it, I'll take at least eight bottles,” Marco adds.

That grabs Jean's attention, considering that'd put a serious dent in his overstock of merchandise, and he blinks.

He finally forces himself to grin a little, mustering some of his abandoned dignity, and nods.

“So, we can start with this sampler...”


	2. Chapter 2

It's six days until Christmas, and Marco has decided once and for all his life is pretty great.

His family will be together for the holidays, he’s healthy, he’s got a job with nice coworkers and decent benefits, and he’s got a really nice suit.

There’s just one small problem.

“So, have you got a date to the holiday party?”

Ymir is chewing the inside of her cheek, leaning lazily against a clearance rack while looking at Marco sideways.

Marco smiles weakly and shrugs a little. “I think I might be _working_ the holiday party, not attending as a guest.”

Ymir rolls her eyes in exasperation and leans forward to casually punch Marco in the shoulder. “You're just salty because you don't have a date.”

“I don't _need_ a date to go to a holiday party at the mall.” Marco straightens and clears his throat, picking critically at a piece of white lint on Ymir's suit.

When she'd first applied to the store, the manager, Levi, had given her a skeptical look; that was, until he saw her impressive resume and ability to tailor a man’s suit to her own petite measurements on the spot, in mere minutes.

Needless to say, she'd gotten the job, and has ever since remained comfortably in her assistant manager position for years. It's as if she doesn't age, considering Marco's been working on and off at the store for the last year and a half since starting college nearby in Trost. (He's never been one for straying far from home if he can help it.)

“Sloppy,” he quips teasingly, shooting Ymir a playful grin as he twists the small piece of lint between his fingertips, much to her chagrin. His smile widens as he realizes Ymir actually looks perturbed, and she punches him in the shoulder again, only less gently this time.

The thing about Ymir, though, is that she hates selling things. She'll do the legwork for fittings, seems to even enjoy that part of it, and will go so far as to flirt with the male customers to draw them in. She's chameleon-like when it comes to reaching her intended goal, and her only soft spot seems to be for Historia.

Marco's been curious about the-girlfriend-formerly-known-as-Christa's name change, but he's not rude enough to ask outright. 

On the other hand, he suspects that the cute sales guy in Bath & Body Works probably would; most likely in an awkward, brash manner that Marco knows he shouldn't find as strangely endearing as he does.

“Yo, Marco,” Ymir bites out, “what are you doing?”

“Wha—?” Marco asks, blinking out his stupor. “Oh, a customer!” He raises his eyebrows in embarrassment, giving Ymir an apologetic look.

“You have fucking googly eyes, Bodt,” Ymir accuses under her breath, chuckling in cruel amusement. “And I know over who.”

Marco ignores the remark and walks confidently over to the potential customer. He’s blond and broad, with a chiseled jaw and harsh face, and he's definitely going to be a task to fit. Good thing Ymir is on shift.

“Hey, what's up?” Brawny Guy says, smiling warmly and crossing his arms. “So, I need to buy a suit.”

Marco smiles, straightening his tie and putting on a friendly expression. “Well, you're in the right place!” he replies cheerfully. “Let's start with getting you measured.”

Once they're in the fitting room with the guy—Reiner, apparently—with permission for Ymir to measure him, she's looking over his physique in fascination.

“Guess you're real into the gym, huh?” she asks bluntly, brandishing her measuring tape with a flick of her wrist. 

_”Ymir,”_ Marco groans, shooting their first customer of the day an awkward smile.

But Reiner doesn't look fazed, and just gives an enthusiastic nod. “Yeah,” he replies, looking thoughtful before continuing, “actually, I think I've seen you there, haven’t I?”

“Hell yeah!” Ymir replies enthusiastically with a cocky grin, jotting down the first measurement in her small notebook. “So, what do you bench?”

Marco decides to leave this conversation to the gym rat experts and wanders back out into the store. He’s into taking care of himself, but he's always been more of a runner than a weights guy. 

Sneaking a look around and seeing he’s alone in the store, Marco makes his way nonchalantly to the front, glancing discreetly across the corridor.

The Bath & Body Works, which is two storefronts down, is mobbed; apparently, bath product fans are also Monday morning early risers.

Marco finally gives into curiosity and takes a few steps out of the store, leaning to see if he can catch sight of Cute Guy Who Sells Gingerbread Lotion.

Sure enough, he sees Jean running back and forth between the lotion display mountain and cash register, throwing things into baskets, and distributing the coupons. (Likely the classic retail nightmare of a pre-Christmas early bird special.) 

The shoppers are frenzied, sifting through baskets containing marked down gels, lotions, and soaps in pink, blue, green, and orange—available in every color and scent under the sun. Marco cringes as he catches sight of Jean’s frazzled expression in the midst of whirling around sharply to face a customer, and then, disaster strikes.

As if in slow motion, Jean stumbles against the mountainous display of stinky gingerbread lotion, and it crashes down in a violent avalanche of Christmas body moisturizer.

Judging from a few of the customers' expressions—which quickly progress from shocked to scandalized—Marco’s relatively sure that Jean’s reaction didn’t include a holiday-friendly word.

Then, someone who Marco assumes is the manager appears, takes one look between Jean and the lotion cascade, and gestures for him to return to the counter.

Thankfully, things start to settle down after a few minutes as the manager calmly reassembles the lotion display as Jean sulkily rings up customers who are undoubtedly shooting him openly dirty looks.

Suddenly, Marco realizes he's been standing in the entrance of his own store for at least five minutes, watching the events unfold, and he's aware that someone is watching him.

Ymir has appeared and is now chuckling, and Marco blinks in surprise. 

“He claims he doesn't want a date for our staff Christmas party,” she remarks evenly, apparently sharing this information with her new best gym rat friend, “but he's got the biggest crush on that guy.”

Marco immediately ducks as a blush flares in his cheeks, and he lets loose an uncharacteristic scowl.

“Historia told me,” Ymir adds bluntly, clearly amused. “You're sadly obvious, Bodt.”

“I'm taking my break,” Marco grits out, biting his lip and feeling a little mortified. On some level, though, he's almost relieved it's finally out in the open; he knows how pathetically obvious he is to anyone watching.

Except, apparently, the object of his interest.

Ymir gives him a wave, turning back to the register to finish Reiner's fitting. “See ya in half an hour,” she dismisses.

She's a pain in the ass, but nonetheless, Marco likes her. He's known for his high tolerance for bullshit where people are concerned who he knows are good underneath it all.

Of course, that doesn't mean he can't be irritated at his very irritating coworker. However, since he's never believed that sulking does any good, he decides to do something to make himself feel better, and hopefully, someone else at the same time.

The mulled cider at the pretzel place isn't great, but at least it's not sugary soda or made of substances that probably don't actually qualify as food.

He feels a little silly as he walks back toward his own store, fighting down the blush all over again, but decides to go through with his little endeavor.

The Bath & Body Works is quiet when he goes in, and the manager who he'd witnessed clean up Jean's mess is standing behind the register, calmly counting cash in the drawer. Her nametag reads “Mikasa,” and she looks up at Marco impassively.

“Hello,” she says with a friendly smile that's not quite a smile, “welcome to Bath & Body Works.”

“Um,” Marco stammers, holding both cups of steaming cider awkwardly, “is Jean here?”

“He's in the back...” Mikasa hesitates, obviously choosing her words carefully, “recovering, let's say.” She studies Marco for a moment, and then recognition crosses her face. “You work across the way, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” he says with a sheepish smile, shrugging a little, “I'm on break. And uh, I saw what happened...” He gives her a sympathetic look, and she returns it with a little nod.

There's a short silence, until he blurts out abruptly, “One time, I spilled a Big Gulp on a rack of brand new Armani suits.”

“Whoa, now that's pretty fucking embarrassing,” comes an amused, albeit tired voice, from behind Mikasa. “Did they take it out of your paycheck?”

“No,” Marco replies, smiling a little and immediately dropping his eyes to stare at the floor. “But, um, I wish someone had brought _me_ cider afterward to make me feel better.”

He just laughs nervously, cocking his head to the side and forcing himself to look up and meet Jean's eyes, which as expected, are rather wide now.

“You brought me cider?” Jean blurts out, his mouth practically hanging open.

They just stare at each other for a few beats of silence, and Marco forces himself not to stare at Jean's mouth. 

_Why does he have to be so attractive?_ Jean's obliviousness to this fact just makes him ten times more adorable to Marco. 

Oh god, the word adorable definitely did not just pass through his mind. Not because Marco cares personally, but more because it’s likely that Jean would kick anyone's ass that described him as “adorable.”

“Jean,” Mikasa's even timbre breaks through the silence, “it's time for your break. Why don't you go now, before the next rush?”

Jean finally blinks a few times, eyes traveling from Marco's face to the steaming cup, and then back up.

“Uh,” he finally croaks, “thanks.” It’s unclear whether he’s speaking to Marco or Mikasa at this point, though.

“You want to go...” Marco starts, resisting the urge to shuffle his feet the way he used to when he was a kid, “I dunno, walk around a little? We can spy on the other stores and steal their customers.”

That earns a warm laugh out of Jean who immediately looks more comfortable at the suggestion of underhanded sabotage, and then he looks downright grateful as he accepts the cider from Marco.

“You think today was bad?” Jean asks as they leave the store together, walking in no particular direction. “Let me tell you the shit that happened yesterday. First of all, did you know that some people will draw blood over a loofah? Because they will.”

Marco smiles from behind the rim of his cup, content to listen to Jean talk.

When his break ends and he returns to the store, he doesn't mind when Ymir teases him, having seen them walk past.

He does, however, feel slightly vindicated when she tells him to stop smiling so much because it's creeping her out.


	3. Chapter 3

“Jean!”

Jean makes a sound of frustration, and can’t help how his voice immediately pitches out a harsh, _“What?!”_

He feels a little guilty for snapping, but he frowns at the computer where he’s hunched over; it’s his one evening off, and he knows he’s not going to spend it online. Not that he wants to, exactly, but at least it’s familiar.

“What are you doing?” his mother calls from the bottom of the stairs impatiently. “We're going to be late for the tree lighting!”

Jean mumbles something about having “a fucking raid,” but snaps his mouth shut when his mother—whose ears he swears are on par with a dog's—asks in a deceptively cheerful voice: “What was that?”

“Fine!” he shouts through the door, standing up and turning off the computer monitor. “I'm coming already!”

He knows he's acting like a brat, but he's feeling so lousy about his life tonight that the last thing he wants to do is go watch a stupid tree light up.

Suddenly, he starts as there's a knock on the door to the attic, and surprisingly calm, “Can I come in?”

He grumbles his permission, pulling his sweatshirt on as he gets ready to face the cold as the door swings open.

“Jean, do you really not want to go?”

Jean's not expecting the question, and he pauses in surprise, turning to focus on his mother. She's standing there in her coat, a silly hat on her head with a big snowman he’d gotten her one year in grade school, and her gloves, ready to go. But she looks tense, even a little worried.

He sighs, immediately feeling guilty, and shakes his head. “Sorry,” he mumbles, turning to reach for his scarf that he's carelessly slung over the bottom of his bed, “it's not that. I'm just...”

“It'll be fun,” she enthuses, sounding more buoyed since he hasn't outright said no. “You used to love watching the tree light up.”

Jean snorts, but he does offer up a small smile. “That's just because we'd go shopping for presents afterward.”

He knows his mother spoils him in some ways; he also knows he’s too old to keep taking it for granted.

She just waits, until finally he rolls his eyes and gives in without further complaint. “Okay,” he says gustily, making a show out of tying his scarf around his neck as if he’s about to venture out into the tundra. “I’m ready.”

There's also one small detail that Jean's been avoiding mentioning, and the reason his phone has been sitting on his desk for the last two hours as he debated what to do.

“And, um,” he adds awkwardly, following his mother downstairs to the front door, “there's someone who I might be meeting there.”

“Oh, that's nice!” she sings, obviously not really paying attention. “A friend from work? That's nice you're making friends, Jean.”

“Kind of,” he says, immediately feeling silly as he shrugs on his coat. 

“A kind of friend?” she questions, interest suddenly piqued.

As if on cue, Jean's phone vibrates, and he feels his stomach jump into his throat.

_From: Marco  
6:48pm_

_You still coming? :-)_

Jean clears his throat loudly, immediately tucking his phone away deep into his pocket, intent on answering once they're in the car and his mother is lost in her Christmas carols on CD.

No such luck.

“Oh,” she continues teasingly as he follows her into the bitter cold, headed toward the car, “is it someone special?”

“No,” he grunts.

“Do you want me to leave you alone for a little while?”

He makes a pained sound and refuses to answer the question.

“Well, you look very handsome,” she declares as the garage door rattles up. “That peacoat was a real find.”

 _”Mom!”_ Jean groans in agony. “Stop being nosy!”

She looks irritatingly pleased with herself as they settle into the car. As she turns the key in the ignition and the engine roars to life, the audio system clicks on right in the middle of a Bing Crosby song she'd undoubtedly been listening to on the way home from work.

“She can stand with us at the tree lighting if you want. I promise I won't bother you.”

Jean sets his jaw. “He.”

“Okay,” she acknowledges without missing a beat, “he.”

“He's just a friend.”

His mother doesn’t reply for a moment, carefully reversing down the driveway and keeping a keen eye on the road behind them.

As they pull out and then onto the road, she asks nonchalantly, “Do you want me to give you some time alone?”

Jean slouches down into his seat, hands buried deep in his pocket and nose under his scarf, biting his lip and staring at the various light displays as they pass. “I don't know.”

“Is he cute?”

“I'm not getting out of the car if you keep asking,” he finally replies curtly, playing his trump card to stop the interrogation. He knows his mother can't stand it if he's not there with her to watch the tree lighting; it's a thing for her.

“Fine, fine,” she agrees cheerfully, turning up the volume slightly. “But if you keep that face on, I'm going to tell the story about that one Christmas when you ran around naked for the entire day because you wanted to be the baby Jesus.”

“First of all,” Jean retorts, fighting down the blush that's burning his face at the mere thought of Marco hearing that tale, “I don't even remember that, so it didn't happen. Second of all, fine, I'll smile.”

She looks pleased at this agreement, and nods. “And I'll give you some time with your special friend.”

“Oh my god, don't call him that!” he cries, shaking his head in mortification. “He's just a guy who works in the store across from me.”

“Oh my,” Jean's mother suddenly says, looking over at Jean. “Is he that boy that works in Men's Wearhouse?”

Jean returns the look with wide eyes, not sure what to make of this identification. “Uh, yeah... he's sort of tall?”

There's a peal of loud, brash laughter, and Jean just stares at his mother as if she's lost her mind. “What?”

“Everyone in my book club has the biggest crush on him,” she says, obviously very amused by this turn of events. “He looks like a movie star in a Christmas special!”

“Ew, that's creepy,” Jean retorts firmly. Embarrassingly enough, he also realizes suddenly that his mother's book club meets at the Barnes & Noble near the food court, which means that they pass the store regularly. “Really creepy,” he adds for effect.

“He's so handsome!” she exclaims, pulling into a parking spot a little way away from the Trost town center. “A little too young for anyone in my book club, though.”

Then, she turns and has the gall to _wink_ , and Jean scowls at her.

“Creepy,” he repeats conclusively as the car turns off.

“I'm just teasing you,” she says with a smile. “He looks like he'd be a nice boy.”

“He is nice,” Jean mumbles under his breath.

“You know, Jean,” his mother says, her voice suddenly more serious. “I'm glad you're home for the holidays, and I'm proud of you for sticking with this job. I know it's not your dream to be selling shower gel, but...”

He stares down into his lap for a moment, playing with a loose thread on his glove, and nods a little. “Well,” he finally replies, “until I figure out what I want to do besides selling shower gel, I guess it's something. And um, maybe this month I can contribute toward rent or something.”

“You don't have to do that. Use it to buy your gifts, and for your special friend.”

“Mom! Stop calling him that!”

By the time the Kirschsteins are out of the car and standing in front of the large tree where a crowd is starting to gather, it's started to snow, and Jean's had a discreet moment to reply to Marco's text message.

_To: Marco  
7:15pm_

_i'm here but i'm with my mom. want to meet up in a little while?_

Jean stares at the text, wondering if that sounds weird or dismissive. He hadn't thought to tell Marco that he'd be coming with his mother, but it also hadn't occurred to him when he'd stuttered out a yes to Marco's offer to meeting up at the tree lighting together. (To Jean's credit, Marco had also mentioned a few of his sisters were coming.)

He presses send, though, hoping it doesn't sound like he's being dismissive.

Within a minute, he gets one back.

_From: Marco  
7:16pm_

_No problem! I don't mind meeting your mom. My sisters are here too._

Jean blinks, feeling his face heat in a mixture of surprise, embarrassment, and warm feelings, but then another text immediately follows.

_From: Marco  
7:16pm_

_oh my gosh! Sorry if that sounded weird. :c_

There's nervous, quiet laughter that Jean knows his mother notices—but thankfully, doesn't comment upon—as he types out a response.

_To: Marco  
7:17pm_

_no its cool! if that's okay with you, we're standing on the side near where that big sleigh is with the creepy fake reindeer._

The reindeer attached the ornamental sleigh are pretty creepy, although Jean has a feeling Marco will probably like them. He seems to really like this holiday stuff; especially the good cheer part.

His mother has started chatting to a friend she’s run into, and Jean is staring into the sky with his hands in his pockets when he feels a hand tap his shoulder. He jumps in surprise, but then tries to appear cool as he turns to see Marco standing there with what appears to be a female clone of himself.

“Hey,” he says, smiling that radiant smile. Jean hates to admit it, but his mother was right: Marco does look like an old-fashioned movie star. It's those damn freckles.

“Hi!” Jean squeaks out, clearing his throat in embarrassment. “Um, hi. So, Marco... this is my mom.”

Jean's mother has already been watching the interaction with great interest, and she immediately looks pleased when he politely turns to her and reaches out his hand. “Hi, Mrs. Kirschstein, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

She reaches out her hand to give Marco a firm handshake—Jean almost laughs as Marco cringes, knowing how tight his mother can grip—and nods.

“So polite,” she remarks approvingly, before turning to look at what is no doubt one of Marco's many sisters. “And who is this?”

“Oh,” he says, smiling a little bashfully, “sorry, this is my sister, Marjorie.”

All of them look at Marjorie, and there's a short silence, until Jean realizes she's holding out her hand to him.

“Oh, hey,” he offers, trying to sound friendly, sticking out his hand, “what's up?”

“Hi,” she breathes, staring at him absolutely starry-eyed. “I didn't know my brother had such handsome friends,” she says, giggling. 

_Shit, is this really happening?_

“So,” she says, batting her eyelashes, “you work together?”

Jean can see Marco's eyes dart back and forth in confusion, until he obviously has the same internal “oh shit” moment.

“Uh, no,” Jean replies awkwardly, “I sell bath products.”

That seems to dampen her interest somewhat, and then she makes a face. “Ew, do you sell that gross gingerbread lotion? We have, like, ten bottles in our bathroom, and I don't even know whose they are!”

Marco makes an embarrassed noise and swats her in the shoulder, and she looks at him in surprise.

“What?”

“Don't you have to go meet someone?” he asks tersely. As if on cue, her attention is suddenly captured by someone in the crowd. “See you later!” she says. “And can you eat something, Marco? You're being grumpy.”

“The other ones like the lotion,” Marco says quickly, giving Jean a slightly panicked look that he doesn't totally understand. 

“Uh, that's okay,” he answers, completely mystified at Marco's apparent distress.

When he doesn't say anything else, Marco appears to visibly relax, and then he raises his eyebrows as if in apology. “Sorry,” he explains, laughing a little, “she's at that age where every guy seems like a potential crush.”

Jean snorts, looking over with a grin, and their eyes lock unexpectedly. They stare at each other for a few beats of silence, until Jean looks awkwardly away and shoves his hands in his pockets, and Marco clears his throat.

“They're about to light up the tree!” Jean's mother cries in excitement, and he's relieved she's too distracted to notice their little wordless exchange.

They watch as some poor guy slowly climbs up a worryingly wobbly ladder to put the star on the top of the massive town Christmas tree, and Jean starts as he suddenly feels a gentle tap against his arm.

“I like your jacket,” Marco says simply, letting his fingers linger ever so slightly on Jean's shoulder.

Warmth immediately flares in Jean's chest (and on his cheeks, he's relatively sure), and he can't help but smile a little. “Oh, uh, it's a few years old.” He laughs a little, rolling his eyes sheepishly. “An ex-girlfriend helped me pick it out.”

“Ex?”

“Yup.”

There's a short silence, until Jean breaks it. “I've never seen you when you're not wearing a suit.” 

“I've never seen you not wearing an apron,” Marco retorts, not missing a beat. “Do you have a girlfriend now?”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Do you—”

Jean jumps as there's a loud gasp from the audience, and suddenly, everything is bathed in multicolored lights as the tree illuminates.

“It's beautiful!” Jean's mother exclaims, tugging at his shoulder.

Jean is staring at Marco, who is staring right back, and he replies without a thought, “Yeah, it is.”

That earns a little curve of Marco's mouth, and Jean's heart starts to pound. There's snow landing in his dark hair, and he's looking at Jean like there's nothing else worth looking at around them, not even a huge, lit up tree.

And then, all Jean can do is catalogue the series of events that transpire: Marco says, “No, I don't have a boyfriend;” he takes Jean’s hand in his and squeezes without letting go; and then brushes the snow out of Jean's hair.

Jean is pretty sure he looks like a fish gasping for air out of water, but Marco doesn't seem to mind.

And he doesn't let go of Marco's hand, even when his mother asks if he'd like to come back with them for some Christmas cookies.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s four days until Christmas, and Marco has done hardly any of his Christmas shopping. 

However, instead of being an inconvenience, in his mind, it presents the perfect opportunity to ask Jean on a psuedo-date during their lunch break to go walk around a department store and shop for gifts.

The thing is, Marco told a little white lie the night before: all of his sisters actually hate gingerbread. 

As Marjorie had conspicuously mentioned, the reason there is currently ten bottles of gingerbread-scented body lotion in the bathroom closet of the Bodt household is solely because Marco has been going into the Bath & Body Works for a solid two months, just to catch a glimpse of Cute Guy Who Sells Gingerbread Lotion.

Jean is remarkably cocky yet awkward at the same time, not to mention strikingly good looking, at least to Marco’s eyes. His smarmy disposition seemed to routinely frighten away or irritate most women he tried to “charm” (as he no doubt thought of it).

So, as an excuse to go into the store at least once a week, Marco had started buying gingerbread lotion. But then, he didn’t stop, because it became apparent that Jean’s main function in the store was to sell the seasonal products; he felt for the guy. If not as the hot guy he had a huge crush on, then for a fellow comrade in the retail war.

Marco is permanently scarred from that fateful July when the newest collection of canary yellow “summer” suits had come in—blindingly yellow and Big Bird-style, as at least a few aghast customers had described the design.

So, he sympathizes with Jean’s gingerbread lotion plight, and decided that he may as well buy as many as possible if he was going to take the time to go into the store in the first place.

But that was then, and now, he doesn’t need gingerbread lotion as an excuse to talk to Jean Kirschstein.

_To: Jean  
1:15pm_

_Last night was really fun. Your mom is really nice. Thanks for the cookies! :)_

Marco stares at the text critically. Is it too much? Should he mention Jean’s mom? Is that weird? And the cookies were really good. Is the smiley face too dorky?

Oh god.

“Are you okay, Marco?” comes Historia’s concerned voice from where she’s leaning against the counter, waiting for Ymir. “You look pale.”

“No, he’s _love struck,_ ” Ymir crows as she emerges from the back, wearing her normal clothes with a messenger bag strapped across her body. “For Bath Boy.”

Historia laughs behind her hand a little, but she gives Marco a friendly look. “He’s weird, but cute.”

“Hot,” Marco replies, feeling his cheeks heat and shooting Historia an embarrassed little smile, “you mean hot.”

He presses send.

“Is Levi in the back?” he asks nonchalantly, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

“Yeah,” she says, nodding as she swipes her time card through the register to end her shift, “he knows you’re going on break in a few minutes.”

“Okay,” Marco replies eagerly, immediately straightening and smoothing down his suit. 

Ymir grins, ambling up to him and clapping him on the shoulder. “You’re meeting Bath Boy, aren’t you? Are you guys going on a mall date?”

He grimaces (unconvincingly, he’s aware) and rolls his eyes. “His name is Jean, and yes, we’re meeting. I have Christmas shopping to do.”

“You gonna slip him the old Yule log, huh?” Ymir says, grinning with half her mouth in that way that always reminds Marco unsettlingly of a fox.

“Ymir, don’t torture, Marco,” Historia reprimands airily, striding forward. Much to Marco’s amusement, she tugs on the tie Ymir’s still wearing leftover from her work ensemble, and Ymir simply follows like a puppy as she’s pulled in tow.

“Bye, Ymir,” he waves, trying not to laugh as she just salutes him without looking back, following Historia closely.

_Bzzt._

Marco nearly jumps out of his skin as his phone vibrates with a text message alert.

_From: Jean  
1:17pm_

_yeah. uh... do u want to get lunch in 10 mins?_

The wide grin that splits Marco’s face is so embarrassing, he hunches over his phone to avoid anyone witnessing his transformation into a giddy as a high school teenager who just got asked to prom by his dream date.

_To: Jean  
1:17pm_

_Sure! You also want to go Christmas shopping with me? I need to get some things._

Oh god, that sounds so painfully coupley... but it’s not like Marco hasn’t made his intentions known, and it’s not _that_ weird.

He did eat cookies shaped like elves with Jean and his mother, and then chatted with Jean for at least two hours after she went to bed the night before.

And then sort of made out a little. Maybe. Just on the couch. Hands over clothes. Nothing the high school prom chaperone wouldn’t approve of.

And just for the record: Jean smells good.

Marco presses send, tamping down his self-doubt; and in under a minute, Jean texts back his approval.

An agonizing ten minutes later, he’s out the door like a shot to retrieve Jean, but Marco’s delighted to see the object of his excitement standing there, waiting.

The excitement on his face must be embarrassingly obvious, because Jean’s cheeks immediately flush, and he drops his eyes, shoving his hands in his pockets. But he’s smiling, so Marco doesn’t hold back.

“Hi!” he says brightly, stopping to stand a few inches in front of Jean.

“Um, hey,” Jean replies, lifting his face to meet Marco’s eyes almost shyly. It’s painfully endearing.

He pulls his hands out of his pockets, but then Marco’s not sure what to think as Jean’s reaches one arm out, pulls Marco in slightly, and then...

Pulls away to punch him gently in the arm with an awkward grin.

Marco stares, not sure what to think; Jean just stares back with an unreadable expression.

He definitely just got bro punched.

Bing Crosby is scream-crooning over the horrifically tinny sound system, everything smells like mall pretzels, and Marco would be fine with death by gingerbread body lotion suffocation.

Finally, he tries to smile and pat Jean on the shoulder in a decidedly friendly, fraternal manner, unsure what to make of the greeting.

This also doesn’t go as he expects, though, when Jean suddenly pulls him in close—just as awkwardly as the first time—and presses the most haphazard kiss Marco’s ever received against his cheek.

Then, the radiant smile is back, and Marco is laughing as he wraps both arms around Jean and pulls him into a tight, enthusiastic hug. Jean immediately relaxes and returns the embrace, laughing weakly at his own awkward antics.

“You know you just bro punched me, right?” Marco asks, drawing away after a few moments, but not before inhaling that scent that’s uniquely Jean. It’s not even anything recognizable from Bath & Body Works. Rather, it smells like some kind of generic aftershave, maybe something his mother helped him pick out when he was a teenager he never bothered changing.

Jean has all the characteristics of a potential peacock, but when it comes down to actually preening, he doesn’t.

“I know,” Jean snorts. “Sorry, I’m um... not used to this.”

“Not used to what?” Marco asks curiously, turning to point toward the direction of a department store that will help him put a dent in his Christmas shopping list.

Jean shoves his hands back in his pockets as they start to walk side by side, but he’s smiling a little again with that expression that makes Marco’s heart beat faster.

“Dating,” he says simply, before his head snaps up and he looks at Marco with slightly widened eyes. “I mean, not that we’re dating, if you... I mean...”

“I like you,” Marco says simply without missing a beat, smiling at Jean warmly as they fall into stride. 

“But...” Jean continues, as if waiting.

“What do you mean ‘but?’”

“You like me, but what?”

“But nothing,” Marco says, feeling a little twinge for Jean that he’d think there’d automatically be a “but” somewhere in there. “That’s it—I like you. I hope that’s okay.”

Jean stays quiet for a few moments, but then he finally raises his eyes to smile more openly at Marco. “Yeah,” he replies with a nod, “that’s totally cool.”

“Unless you punch me in the arm again,” Marco continues teasingly, stopping to admire some snow globes in a glass case as they reach the entrance of the department store. And just for good measure, he punches Jean lightly in the arm. “Bro.”

 _“Ugh,”_ Jean replies, mimicking Marco’s tone from earlier with a grimace for added drama, “you just bro punched me.” 

“Hey, look,” Marco says, stopping to point at a snow globe, “it’s like a little galaxy in there.” 

When Jean steps forward to peer at the snow globe, Marco decides to test the waters; he steps behind Jean and curves his fingers lightly around both of Jean’s hips, looking over his shoulder.

Jean stiffens momentarily out of surprise, but then he immediately relaxes into the touch; Marco has to remind himself that this is still new, that he shouldn’t get too comfortable yet.

But... it feels so natural.

“I never thought of it that way,” Jean finally says after a moment, not moving and letting Marco’s hands remain where they are. “I always just thought this stuff was cheesy.”

Marco chuckles a little, his voice soft. “I like the holidays a lot, actually. Everything’s sparkly and full of magic.”

“Ugh, what elf wound you up and released you into Santa’s kingdom?” Jean groans, belying his feigned irritation by putting one hand over Marco’s and squeezing gently.

“You like pretending to be a jerk, don’t you?” Marco retorts, enjoying their banter. Again, it feels natural.

“You must be attracted to jerks, then.”

“I’m attracted to you, so maybe.”

Jean surprises Marco then by turning around so that they’re facing each other, his face tipped up slightly to meet Marco’s eyes. “What do you want for Christmas?”

“I don’t know,” Marco replies breathlessly, not expecting the warmth in Jean’s expression, the little twitch of his lips fighting a smile, the look of openness and vulnerability that he suspects isn’t Jean’s usual fare. “Um, why? Are we exchanging gifts?”

“Yeah,” Jean deadpans. “I’m getting you gingerbread body lotion.” And then he presses their lips together, and Marco concludes that he’d happily slather himself in gingerbread body lotion for the rest of his life, as long as Jean keeps kissing him.

Finally, they part, and Marco’s his heart feels like it actually flips when Jean reaches up to straighten the collar of his shirt.

“So,” Marco says, reaching down to take Jean’s hand in his, “let’s go look at socks. Everyone likes socks.”

Jean snorts, makes a snarky comment about how socks are the worst Christmas present, and then twines his fingers with Marco’s and follows him to the sock section.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s three days until Christmas, and Jean has over 110 different ideas for gifts that he wants to get for Marco, in order from “sort of creepy and expensive” to “gag gift from the dollar store.” 

“So,” Mikasa says, startling Jean out of his reverie as she stacks newly unboxed gingerbread body lotions onto the circular display in the middle of the store, “do you think you’re going to want to stay after Christmas?”

Jean looks at her carefully, not sure if he’s just stumbled into an impromptu job offer or idle chit-chat. Mikasa is sort of hard to read that way.

He’d an embarrassingly obvious crush on her when he’d started back in September, which quickly dissipated since she just seemed to be a little out of his league (this was before Hot Guy With Freckles In Well Tailored Suit).

“Uh,” he replies after a few beats of silence, looking up from where he’s sorting register receipts behind the counter, “I don’t know. Why, you offering?”

“I’m not sure,” Mikasa replies diplomatically, bending gracefully to replace the fallen signage under the gingerbread lotion, probably knocked over earlier during the lunchtime shopping rush. “I still haven’t heard from management.”

Jean’s jaw tenses, but he tries to be diplomatic. “Probably not,” he starts, trying to level with Mikasa and not offend her. “Look, you’ve got a sweet gig here. You’re a manager, you’re obviously really good at what you do, and I’m just a temporary holiday employee.

“Retail’s not for me, and to be honest, maybe if I did this full-time I’d feel differently. But working part-time like a chump while living with my mom is pretty lame.”

He puts both hands up when he sees Mikasa’s raised eyebrow, shaking his head. “Like I said,” he defends, “it’d be different if I was full-time and rising in the ranks. That’s cool, but let’s be real...” He snorts, rolling his eyes. “I’m just a holiday help guy.”

“Well, how nice you can be so highbrow about it,” comes a voice that immediately makes Jean snap his mouth shut in surprise.

Marco is standing there, wearing an expression that immediately makes Jean feel cold inside.

He looks _pissed._

“Uh,” Jean says awkwardly, a little unsure if what he said was actually offensive or if Marco heard the wrong part, “I don’t mean retail is stupid.”

Marco raises an eyebrow the same way Mikasa had, crossing his arms, waiting.

Jean sighs, frowning a little, looking at Mikasa for help. 

At least she seems to understand what he meant, but she looks carefully between them.

“I think what Jean means is that he’d be okay with doing something full-time, but he doesn’t want to work part-time forever while living with his mom.” She looks over at Jean with raised eyebrows, as if confirming her paraphrasing is correct, and he nods gratefully.

Marco just grunts, arms still crossed in that defensive way Jean doesn’t like, and he feels his adrenaline start to rise.

“Well,” Marco replies curtly, dropping his eyes slightly to stare very hard at the immaculate gingerbread body lotion display, “that’s funny.”

“Uh,” Jean asks uncertainly, cocking his head to the side, “why?”

“I’m just going to... take inventory in the back,” Mikasa interjects awkwardly, slipping past Jean to disappear into the backroom.

Shit.

“You basically just described my life,” Marco says, raising his eyes again to stare at Jean. “Living at home, working part-time, being a ‘chump.’”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” Jean cries, immediately fighting off an unfamiliar feeling of guilt. 

“So, how’d you mean it?” Marco challenges.

“I don’t take this job seriously,” Jean retorts, crossing his arms just as defensively. “Not because I don’t care, but because it’s not my career. It’s just temporary!”

Marco’s mouth flattens, and he just stares at Jean with a gaze that speaks of both irritation, but also upset.

“Is this just temporary, too?” he asks, motioning between the two of them.

Jean’s mouth opens and closes, his eyes widening. “What?”

“Well,” Marco says, taking a few steps back, “if everything is such a joke to you, is meeting me just a stupid, temporary thing? You don’t take that seriously either?”

For the record, Jean’s not a cruel person. In fact, he really hates watching people get hurt; it’s one of the worst feelings in the world, but his temper flares.

“I never said this wasn’t casual,” he spits out, immediately feeling sick as he says it.

He wants to take it back so badly as he watches Marco’s face go from angry to hurt, watches those soft lips go from a flat irritated line into a downturned wobble, and then turn away.

“I don’t do casual.”

It hurts more than Jean thought it would; and ironically, it becomes even more obvious because of this moment how much he _likes_ this guy.

But he can’t bring himself to say anything else.

“Fine.” He feels his throat tighten, but sets his jaw. “I’ll see you around, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Marco says softly, his voice suspiciously choked. “Good luck doing something real with your life, or whatever you said.”

And with that, he walks out the door without another word. Jean feels like he wants to cry—rebukes himself for his own silliness—and starts attaching clearance tags to loofahs like he’s bayoneting enemy soldiers.

“You okay?” Mikasa’s voice is surprisingly gentle.

He just nods, not trusting himself to speak.

“You totally sounded like an asshole,” Mikasa remarks impassively, crossing her arms and leaning against the counter to look at Jean. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” he grunts.

“So, why didn’t you just say you were sorry?”

“I have work to do,” he hisses, looking away.

“Stop being such a shit.”

That surprises Jean enough to stop what he’s doing and look over at Mikasa with wide eyes. “Um, are you supposed to say that?”

Mikasa rolls her eyes, straightening up and adjusting the little button on her apron that announces cheerfully “ASK ME ABOUT OUR PINE SCENTS!”

“I don’t have time for pleasantries,” she replies tartly. “I have family obligations and things to take care of. But when I see someone being an idiot, I feel like they should know.”

Jean stares down hard at the counter, glaring at the clearance merchandise. 

“I can’t apologize now,” he finally says softly, shaking his head. “He probably hates me.”

Mikasa pats him on the shoulder. “No one ever said tagging clearance loofahs is glamorous,” she says, “but it hurts when someone looks down on you.”

Jean sighs, shaking his head, but he feels horrible. He knows he was being an asshole, even if he didn’t mean it that way.

More importantly: he offended Marco, and didn’t even have the balls to apologize.

“C’mon,” Mikasa says, patting his shoulder again, “I’ll buy you lunch.”

The food Jean goes and retrieves from a nearby restaurant is tasty and Mikasa’s good company once she warms up, but he can’t stop thinking about Marco.

The “sort of creepy and expensive gift” he’d had in mind was the snow globe they’d looked at together. Jean had decided to buy it on his way home; that was, until what happened this afternoon. 

And he realizes now that Marco—who works part-time in retail, lives at home, and has the best smile Jean’s ever seen—can see galaxies in department store ornaments, a talent Jean’s never quite mastered.

He already misses the Hot Guy With Freckles In Well Tailored Suit, who’s fast become Marco—just Marco.

Jean shakes his head in resignation as he finishes his lunch, and Mikasa doesn’t ask about it.

He fucked this up, and now, he just has to get through this hellish Christmas and move on, whether he wants to or not.


	6. Chapter 6

It’s two days until Christmas, and from the moment Jean had gotten off shift last night, life was as miserable as he expected.

It started on his way home, when he’d decided to go through the drive through for fast food, and the cashier rang him up wrong. There was something about the cheerful Christmas music pouring through the drive-up window and the server’s painfully cheerful disposition that just irked him, as if the world should respect his dark mood, and he’d snapped at her about getting the wrong change.

Then he’d felt guilty, because the girl who’d taken his order wrong was obviously still in high school and looked about ready to cry.

That had only put him in a worse mood.

By the time he’d gotten home, the dark cloud emanating from him was apparently strong enough that his mother hadn’t even approached him beyond saying hello. Then, when he’d ducked his head and grumbled about how he’d had a shitty day, she also didn’t call him on the foul language.

He’d fallen asleep blessedly early.

The next morning, he tried to get up early enough to avoid his mother at breakfast, but to no avail.

“Good morning, Jean,” she sings as he pads down the stairs with a scowl, clad in sweatpants and an old t-shirt printed with his high school’s insignia. “Do you want eggs?”

“No,” he grunts, immediately wanting to turn right back around and return to his bed. “I just want coffee.”

She purses her lips at him, but she’s so damn cheerful, his mood doesn’t even seem to affect her. Normally, Jean would laugh about the fact that she’s wearing a puff-paint sweater he made for her in fifth grade, decorated with haphazard elves and a Santa Claus that looks more like Satan with a beard than any rendition of a human being.

“Are you working tomorrow?” she asks.

He grunts again, making his way to the coffee maker where the carafe is blessedly still half-full, and pours a cup of black coffee.

“Stop grunting at me like a caveman,” she rebukes him, looking over her shoulder where she’s standing in front of the stove with a spatula, eyebrow quirked critically.

Jean clears his throat, but he knows when to quit. “Yeah, I’m working,” he finally replies. “There’s also this staff holiday party thing tomorrow night after the stores close.”

“That sounds fun,” she remarks absently, turning back around to flip the eggs she’s cooking.

“I don’t know if I’m going,” he says with a moody shrug.

“Is Marco going?”

“I dunno,” he says, his voice carefully neutral.

“Well, why don’t you ask him?” Jean’s mother replies, sounding as if he’s lost his mind.

“Because we had a fight,” Jean blurts out, “and he probably never wants to see me again. So whatever, and no, I don’t want to talk about it.”

He crosses one arm over his chest defensively, feeling childish, but not caring; he takes a long swallow of coffee, hoping it’ll help wake him up, but also take some of the edge off the anxious ball in his chest.

His mother turns, looking concerned, but when she catches sight of Jean’s expression, it’s clear that she knows to drop it.

“That’s too bad,” she says simply, before leaving the eggs to fry on the stove, tugging at Jean’s sleeve, and making him sit down at the table. “You want toast?”

Jean sighs woefully. “Yeah, okay.”

“Yeah, okay _what?_ ” his mother immediately retorts, swatting him lightly on the shoulder.

“Yeah, okay _please_ ,” he corrects, rolling his eyes, but he makes sure to do it when she’s not looking. “I can’t believe you’re wearing that sweater out into public.”

She laughs, returning to the stove to turn off the burner and effortlessly slide the eggs onto two plates. “I’d never get rid of something my Jeanbo made for me.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” he whines in agony, covering his face with both hands, “don’t call me that. I hate that nickname.”

“You made it up,” his mother informs him smartly.

“I was three!”

She places a plate with two perfectly fried eggs and toast on the table in front of him, replete with a fork and refill on his coffee, before sitting down across from him. “So, are we going to watch Christmas movies on Christmas Eve if you don’t go to that work party?”

“I hate Christmas,” he sulks, slumping into his chair as he takes a bite of his eggs.

“Well,” his mother replies curtly, ignoring his pessimism, “it’ll be over soon enough. Did you get all your shopping done?”

Jean’s about to say he hasn’t, since Marco was the last recipient on the list, but that name had disappeared as quickly as it’d been added.

“Yeah,” he finally says softly, feeling suddenly defeated rather than irritable. “I got some socks for people.”

“That’s always a useful gift,” she says absently, focused on finishing her eggs and toast. They eat in silence for a few minutes, but it’s comfortable, and Jean finally relaxes slightly. His mother’s food always helps.

When they’ve both finished eating and Jean’s started the dishes, she pats him on the shoulder on her way out the door. “All right, honey, I’m off to work. I’ll see you tonight when you get home.”

He has to give his mother credit for wearing the puff-paint sweater in all its glory where other people can actually see it, and he reminds himself that the holidays aren’t only about feeling heartbroken. Truth be told, even if his mother threatens to tell embarrassing stories and insists of calling him awful childhood nicknames, she does a lot for him.

Nonetheless, that doesn’t mitigate the fact that what happened with Marco sucks, that he really blew it. The last thing he wants to do, too, is go to some holiday party where he stands a chance of seeing Marco. There are actually some cool people his own age who work in the adjacent stores, but he can’t bear the thought of having to make painful small talk with Marco over non-alcoholic holiday punch, if they’re unable to avoid each other without drawing awkward attention.

If there’s one thing Jean never learned how to do—and he knows it, even now—it’s how to apologize. In fact, it’s not even a matter of ego at this point, so much as that he has absolutely no idea how to start, and he’s convinced he’d only make it worse.

Better to just let it go, although he really hates the fact that his mother happens to collect holiday snow globes.

= = =

Jean hadn’t though his mood could get worse than it already was by noon, but trust the holidays to make everything worse.

“Jean?” Mikasa’s voice carries over one of the Christmas songs playing over the store’s sound system Jean’s tried desperately to block out at this point. “Are you done inventorying those royal pear bath gels?”

“Yup,” he grunts, straightening from where he’s been busy counting never ending bottles of shower gel. “There’s twenty on the shelf, and thirteen in the back.”

“Okay,” Mikasa nods, marking down the figure on her clipboard, “thanks.”

Jean nods, turning to straighten some bath products that have been knocked askew on a nearby shelf. He’s spent his shift desperately trying occupy his mind with menial tasks and ensuring every inch of the store is perfectly organized, since it’s just too easy to visualize the wounded look on Marco’s face as he’d stood right in the center of the store just the day before.

Marco, who Jean knows is on shift just a few storefronts away. 

“Oh, that reminds me,” Mikasa says suddenly, breaking through Jean’s thoughts. Her voice sounds hesitant though, almost apologetic, and he turns in surprise.

“Yeah?”

“Are you available on Christmas Eve?” she asks, raising her eyebrows. “For the holiday party?”

Jean’s eyes widen, and he feel his face go a little hot. Mikasa’s a gorgeous girl, and he had a bit of a puppy dog crush at first, but he’s just not into that right now. His love life has been overwhelming as it is.

“Um,” he stammers, “you mean to go together?”

It’s Mikasa’s turn to look baffled now, and then intensely embarrassed. “I meant to work the party,” she says awkwardly. “You’d also be welcome to attend as a guest, since you’re on staff, but I figured since you won’t be here after the holidays, you’d want the extra cash. Also, if you don’t do it, I have to do it.”

“Oh!” he exclaims, laughing in a high pitched, nervous octave. “No, uh, I knew that’s what you meant!”

Mikasa raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment further, much to his relief.

“Yeah, sure, I guess,” he finally says, shrugging. “But isn’t that late at night? What would I have to do?”

She inhales deeply, almost cringing, and Jean waits expectantly.

“You have to be party Santa.”

“What?”

Mikasa covers both her eyes with two long, fine-boned fingers, and she’s actually laughing. “It’s a rotating holiday tradition. Every year, a few of the stores are required to have their employees play holiday party Santa and helpers, with the fake beard and everything. This year, we’re one of them.”

Jean just stares at her, his mouth hanging open. “That’s cruel and unusual,” he finally sputters. “This is why people unionize.”

Mikasa laughs outright now, and rolls her eyes. “It’s pretty terrible,” she agrees.

“And, let me guess: you’d pay me out of your own pocket so you don’t have to do it,” Jean guesses, smirking a little. So apparently Mikasa Ackerman does have a weakness.

She doesn’t even try to deny it, nodding her head decisively. “Yes.”

He sighs deeply, rolling his eyes; the idea of dressing up in a Santa suit in front of a bunch of coworkers—whether immediate or not—is pretty mortifying. Then again, the extra money would be nice, and it’s not like his life can suck much more than it does already.

“Okay,” he finally agrees, “fine. But please tell me it counts as overtime.”

“It does,” Mikasa confirms, nodding quickly.

“Do I have to bring my own beard?”

The only time that Jean can recall a girl as gorgeous as Mikasa ever hugging him is at this moment, after volunteering to save his quiet, reserved manager from playing holiday party Santa Claus.

She reassures him that it won’t last long, and that whoever else is working the party will also have to dress up in some mortifying get-up, probably as an elf. 

Jean figures that between a Santa suit and an elf outfit, he got the better end of the deal.


	7. Chapter 7

It's Christmas Eve, and the last thing Marco wants to do is stay late at work, even if he is promised overtime and he could use the money.

“Are you really that broken up over it?” Ymir asks, bending down as she tugs critically at the seam of the vivid green plumed trousers Marco's managed to pull over his legs.

Marco grunts, frowning mildly at himself in the three-way mirror, getting a triple view of how miserable he looks.

“Who wore this last?” he asks, feeling cranky. “An actual elf?”

Ymir chuckles, looping her measuring tape around Marco's calf. “It's not the Santa brigade's fault you run too much and you have legs like a tree trunk.”

“Hey!”

“Stop fidgeting.”

Marco sighs, crossing his arms and trying to stay still as Ymir measures and evaluates exactly what last minute alterations she has to make on the elf costume. It's only a few hours until the party starts, and Marco is relieved Ymir had to close the store with him. Otherwise, he'd be stuck barely able to move as he handed out gifts to whatever lucky employees had won awards or other small raffle prizes. At least Ymir can make the outfit fit a bit better with her magical tailoring touch.

After a few minutes of measuring and critical tugging at different areas of the costume, she has Marco strip out of it and then gets to work with a seam ripper, needle and thread, and a lot of confidence.

“I'm just going to do some really minor alterations that'll last the night,” she explains, threading the needle by hand.

Marco sighs, nodding gratefully and moving to sit down on one of the benches. He's wearing only his boxers and a t-shirt now, and it's oddly chilly in the dressing room.

“To answer your question,” he says suddenly, making Ymir start, “yeah, I sort of am.”

“Huh?” she asks, focusing on her work again. “You're sort of what?”

“Broken up about... it,” he replies awkwardly, feeling self-conscious about his admission that he's still bothered by his disagreement with Jean. They'd only even started hanging out a week before, but it feels like a lot longer. Their natural chemistry was undeniable.

 

_I never said it wasn't casual._

 

“Do you do casual hookups, Ymir?” Marco asks idly, deciding to voice his thoughts. He's pretty sure Ymir's going to laugh at him for his sentimentality and what he thinks are probably old-fashioned preferences—since he doesn't really do the whole casual hookup thing—but instead, she replies immediately.

“Nope,” she says definitively. She looks up at Marco hesitantly for a moment; it's surprising, since Ymir can talk until the sun goes down and comes back up, but she never actually shares much personal information. She's sardonic and blunt, but not particularly candid about herself.

“I've been with Historia for six years. Never wanted anything else, to be honest,” she explains with a shrug, flipping the trousers over she's been working on to examine the other seam.

“You've been with Historia since you guys were 16?” Marco blurts out, practically agape. He hopes she doesn't take it as an insult, but he's surprised.

But in typical Ymir fashion, she just rolls her eyes and laughs. “Got your petticoats in a ruffle?” she quips, raising an eyebrow at Marco. “A relationship that's not the perfect length of time with the perfect ending?”

Marco frowns at her; she continues to look amused.

“I'm not _that_ sheltered,” he grumps.

Ymir snorts.

“Well,” he defends, shivering a little in the cold air and hoping Ymir will hurry, “I don't expect anyone to have a perfect arc or ending to their relationships.”

“So, then why don't you apologize?” she retorts smoothly. Once again, Ymir is more observant than she lets on.

“Because,” Marco says, biting his lip and feeling miserable all over again, “he told me he never said this wasn't casual.”

“Oh, please,” Ymir immediately rebukes, starting on the other trouser leg with her seam ripper and sewing needle. “That boy has the biggest most awkward puppy dog love eyes for you I've ever seen.”

Marco's honestly surprised she didn't just say boner.

“I'd say boner, but that's too generous for that kid. He's totally sappy.”

“Well,” Marco says stubbornly, trying to put the thought out of his mind that maybe Jean was just fronting, chalking it up to false hope, “whatever. We only knew each other a week.” That, and the alternative of hoping only to be let down again is just more than Marco can handle in such a short time.

“So what?” Ymir counters with a dismissive shrug. “You like him.”

“I don't want to talk about this anymore.”

“Okay,” she replies agreeably. “I really hope you're not planning on wearing those boxers with these pants, because there's no way it's going to work.”

Marco groans in agony and stands up to skulk over to the men's underwear section in the dark store to retrieve some suitable briefs.

Great.

Well, at least the shoes will be fun to wear, if not a little ridiculous. They're curved with little white balls of cotton at the ends, like real elf shoes, and even have a hat to match. It's actually a good costume, and he has to remember to take a picture to send to his youngest sister. She'll love it.

The thought of his family cheers Marco a little, and he vows to simply get through the night. At least his costume will fit and he'll be getting overtime.

“You ready to get these elf hot pants on, Bodt?”

Only a few hours.

= = =

“This is fucking itchy,” Jean complains, scowling at Mikasa who's standing behind him at the door of the staff bathroom in the back room where he's standing in front of the mirror, picking at a fake beard. “Do I really have to wear this?”

“Don't make me wear it,” she deadpans, yawning a little.

“So, you're going to go just to watch me suffer?” he whines, making a face and shifting in the baggy Santa outfit. “Tell me these get cleaned every year.”

“Not usually,” Mikasa replies evenly. “We just let all the sweat accumulate every year.”

“That's gross.”

“You're being a big baby.”

Jean grins at her a little in the mirror, enjoying their banter. He actually likes this unexpected little friendship they have blooming; she's pretty cool.

“Yeah,” he concedes after a moment. He hesitates, adjusting the beard that's attached awkwardly to an elastic string that goes behind his ears and around the back of his head, and then tugs the Santa hat down firmly. Even he has to admit that the costume is pretty legit. The trim on the jacket and hat seem to be real, or at least high quality faux fur.

“I don't think he's going to be there, if that makes you feel any better,” Mikasa says, as if reading Jean's thoughts. Not that it's particularly difficult, since Jean's been floating along in a miserable cloud for a day and a half now.

“What makes you say that?” Jean questions, turning to look at her suspiciously. He's not sure, though, whether that information makes him feel worse or better.

“He's not on the RSVP list.”

Oh. Well, that's pretty undebatable.

“Oh,” he says, hating the way he sounds defeated. What was he expecting? A Christmas Eve reconciliation of romantic comedy proportions?

Okay, so “expecting” isn't really the right word. He blames this entirely on his mother and her love of Christmas rom-coms.

“So,” Mikasa says, changing the subject and standing up to adjust Jean's beard, “all you need to do is come into the party carrying that giant bag of presents. It's not heavy, but it's big. Whoever's playing the elf this year will help you, but you just have to... uh...” she hesitates, raising an eyebrow as she studies Jean's nonplussed expression.

“Have to what?” he prompts, tightening his belt. He's really not cut out for this Santa business.

“You have to be jolly,” she deadpans.

They just stare at each other.

“What the hell does that mean?” he demands after a moment, though his voice isn't critical so much as mystified, as if he and Mikasa are comrades in the mystery of holiday cheer.

“I don't know,” she admits, laughing a little. “Just say 'ho, ho, ho' a few times really loudly, and smile.”

Jean tries to smile, pulling his lips into a grin, which he's relatively sure comes off as more of a grimace.

“Um,” she says, cocking her head to the side and shaking her dark, satiny hair back, “less like you just got your gums shot with novocaine, more like Santa Claus.”

Jean sighs, and decides to opt for his trademark, cocky grin that he knows make him look like an over-confident asshole more than anything else—not that he cares, since that's sort of the point—but even that must be an improvement over his “cheerful smile.”

“That works,” she concludes, shrugging a little. It's then he notices she's wearing a dress that's actually rather festive, made out of sheer, formal looking black fabric with little holly berries embroidered at the neckline.

“You look nice,” he blurts out, then immediately blushes slightly when Mikasa's eyes widen. “I don't mean in a creepy way!” he corrects, feeling like he's digging a hole. “I mean, uh...”

Mikasa finally laughs, throwing her head back and patting Jean on the shoulder. “You know,” she says after a moment, “a few years ago, I probably wouldn't have known what to say.” She shakes her head, smiling at Jean. “Now I'll just say: 'thank you.' My mother made this dress.” She raises an eyebrow, and the comment isn't lost on Jean when she adds, “Sometimes you just need to say the thing that seems the most awkward, because it's actually not.”

“Saying 'thank you' is awkward?” he questions, trying to derail her train of conversation.

“Sure,” she confirms immediately. “It means that you're acknowledging something is true, or that you're okay with it. People paying attention to me when I was younger always confused me, but now, I'm a better judge of people.”

Jean's quiet for a moment, studying Mikasa's expression, and he cringes slightly. “So, what? I should say thank you for being criticized?”

“No,” Mikasa replies patiently, “you should just say what you want, and stop being afraid of what might happen.”

That shuts Jean up, until finally, he awkwardly looks at his watch. “If you don't stop giving me a Buddhist philosophy lesson, we're going to be late.”

“Congratulations,” Mikasa answers, breezing away gracefully toward the front of the store. “You've just earned the reward of re-stocking all the gingerbread lotion tomorrow morning.”

Jean groans in agony, turning to haul the huge red bag of gifts over his shoulder, but he can't hide the smile.

In this sinkhole of stinky body products and hot guys in suits breaking his heart, at least he got a friend out of the deal.

= = =

“Okay, so you can eat after your elf duties are fulfilled,” Ymir tells Marco where they're standing behind a divider that provides the backdrop of the mall Santa chair that's usually reserved for children during the day, but has taken on prop status for the staff party. “But for now, you have to stay out of sight, back here, so the whole 'Santa giving prizes and awards' will be a surprise. Everyone knows what's going to happen, but they make a big deal out of this being a ceremony.”

“I remember from last year,” Marco replies, cringing. They'd actually had an older man who worked part-time in the jewelry store playing Santa, replete with a beard, which was endearing until he became intoxicated from a holly-jolly flask of whiskey he'd brought for himself. “What ever happened to Mr. Pixis?”

“I don't know,” Ymir snorts. “I think he got fired. He was always sort of crazy.”

Marco shrugs a little. “So, I just have to help whoever Santa is with the gifts?”

Ymir gives him a toothy grin. “Yeah,” she nods, “you have to be the holiday eye candy.”

“That's gross.”

“No, literally,” she insists. “You're there for decoration. You're the elf.” She cocks her head to the side, but Marco can tell she's trying not to laugh. “You're there to make Christmas legit, Elf Helper Bodt, and in impeccably fitting elf attire, I might add.”

“Oh my god,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Okay, okay, let's just get this over with. I want to go home to see my family.” He smiles sheepishly. “Can you remember to take a picture of me before I go home? My little sister will love this.”

Ymir laughs a little. “Sure.”

Suddenly, a sound speaker is cued up, and Mariah Carey starts blasting out over the mall corridor where a few employees have started to gather, investigating the table of food. It's actually impressively catered, and there's even wine and mulled cider in a big glass punch bowl.

“So,” she instructs, “since no one can come behind here, if you or Santa need to change, or fix a gift, you can just do it here.”

The entire area behind the chair is stationed off with the dividers, and provides a large enough space to move around.

“Are the gifts labeled?”

“Not sure,” Ymir says with a shrug, heading in the direction of joining the party, “but you guys can figure it out. If worse comes to worst, there'll be a list with the bag. We're not responsible for the gifts this year.”

“Wait, so who's playing Santa?”

“You've gotta fucking be kidding me,” comes a familiar voice from behind Marco, and he whirls around.

And there's Jean, wearing an ill-fitting fake beard and red Santa hat, staring at Marco and Ymir.

Ymir looks back and forth between them in concern, and she raises an eyebrow at Marco. “Is this going to work?” she acts bluntly.

Marco nods hard, refusing to look at Jean. “We're professionals,” he replies curtly.

Ymir looks over at Jean, and after a moment so does Marco; Jean just gives a sharp nod, his eyes fixed on the floor, but he looks steadfast in his agreement.

Ymir shakes her head, obviously wanting to escape the awkward situation. “Uh, merry Christmas,” she says, and then disappears out into the party.

They just stand there for a moment, trying not to look at each other; but just as Marco manages to work up the courage to offer up a civil word, Jean curses.

“Shit!” he exclaims, jerking his head up to look at Marco. “I forgot the gifts!”

Marco's eyes widen, too, and his eyebrows raise. “Well, can't you just go get them?”

“They're locked in the store!” he hisses, walking forward to sneak a look out into the party from behind the divider. “Mikasa's going to kill me. I'm doing this in her place, and they'll definitely blame her.”

“Text her?” Marco suggests, feeling sympathetic.

“Ugh, fine,” Jean grunts, pulling his phone out of the Santa pants and quickly typing out a text message.

Then, they stand there awkwardly again, waiting for Mikasa's reply.

“Um,” Marco finally hazards, his voice coming out as an embarrassing squeak, “I guess we're here for at least a few hours.”

“I guess,” Jean agrees tonelessly.

Silence.

“I'm supposed to hand out the presents?”

“Yup.”

Marco growls in frustration, and he finally breaks down. “You're being immature.”

“Says the guy dressed as an elf,” Jean retorts. “It's not my fault you decided to not talk to me.”

“What?” Marco demands, immediately feeling outraged enough to throw his hands up. “You didn't even text me!”

“Well, what was I supposed to say?” Jean throws back, feeling his temper rising. “That I was upset? That I think you're an asshole for calling me out and then not...” He falters, obviously unsure of where he was going with that thought.

“Is everything okay?” comes a calm voice, and there's Jean's manager, poking her head back behind the divider to survey them carefully.

“Yes,” they both grit out at the same time, immediately quieting.

“Here,” she says, offering Jean the keys, “I didn't set the alarm, so you can just go in. I think they're in the back.”

Jean nods, walking over with a squeak of his boots to retrieve the keys. “Marco should probably help you,” she says, looking at them hesitantly, “because that bag is too big for you to carry alone.”

“It'll be fine.”

“Take Marco.”

Jean growls, but Mikasa takes it in stride, rolling her eyes before disappearing.

“We have to go get these stupid gifts,” Jean grunts, turning in the direction of Bath & Body Works without seeing if Marco is following him.

There's a ball of hurt steadily building in Marco's chest; he hadn't realized how angry Jean really was, and how much he apparently has decided he despises Marco now.

As they walk—Jean far in the lead—Marco stops to look up through one of the mall skylights in the darkened corridor. The entire mall is quiet and dark except for the area where the party is happening.

“What are you doing?” Jean demands impatiently, whirling around to look at Marco in irritation.

“It's snowing,” Marco says, spotting some flurries of snow beating against the skylight even against the dark winter sky. “It hasn't snowed at all yet.”

Jean sighs heavily, and at first, Marco thinks it's in exasperation; but then, when he looks at Jean, he sees an expression that's a little remorseful.

“Um,” he starts again hesitantly, “can we just... get this over with?”

Marco nods, not trusting himself to speak; there's something so final about the way Jean says it, that for the first time, it really sinks in that whatever little thing they had going has definitely been tamped out as quickly as it began.

They walk in silence the rest of the way toward the store, but at least this time, Jean waits for Marco to catch up.

“Wow,” Marco remarks as they enter the darkened store, “that's a really big bag.”

Jean just shrugs as he moves to grab the bulging sack of gifts in a large red bag that looks suspiciously flimsy. “It's not that heavy,” he says, moving to swing it over his shoulder. “Let's go.”

And with that, he turns and marches out the front of the store as quickly as he came, turning to lock the front door again.

Marco just follows, silently agreeing with Jean with each passing moment that their main objective should just be to “get this over with.” It also doesn't help that he forgot to return his gift for Jean, and it's still tucked into his bag back at the store; there's something bittersweet about knowing that.

Marco's so lost in thought, though, that he doesn't notice the impediment in his path and trips.

“What the...”

He looks down, and to his dismay, there's a wrapped gift that's already banged up.

“Jean!” he calls, jerking his head up.

But Jean is already at least twenty feet ahead of him, leaving a trail of gifts behind him as the hole in the bottom of the bag continues to just get larger as he hurries forward.

“What?” he snaps, looking over his shoulder at Marco with resentment. “You're going to make us— oh shit.”

And it's on December 24, Christmas Eve, that Marco finally messes up on the job, even if it wasn't technically his fault.

“We're so dead!” he hisses, dropping the bag of remaining presents with a worrying sound of breaking glass and jogging back to examine the gifts. Most of the boxes are at best dented on the side, at worst, obviously contain something now broken. “What the hell were they giving, anyway? Crystal glass sets?”

Much to Marco's horror, Jean immediately tears the paper off the corner of one of the boxes and opens it, peering inside.

“Oh my god, these are all ornaments,” he hisses, the blood draining from his face. “Expensive ones.”

He looks up at Marco with wide eyes, and if Marco's not mistaken, not a trace of his usual sardonic expression there.

“Who plans what to give?” he asks suddenly.

Marco's eyebrows raise, and he cocks his head to the side, baffled at the unexpected question.

“I think the corporate office,” he offers, “but usually, the general favors aren't anything that special. I'll bet these ornaments were probably leftover stock or something they couldn't get rid of.”

“Okay,” Jean says, suddenly very level-headed. “So, as long as everyone walks away with something, it shouldn't be so bad?”

“Well,” Marco replies hesitantly, giving the boxes a second look, “yeah, I guess so, if I'm right. But what about the awards or whatever?”

“Mikasa kept those with her—they're just checks and gift cards. The bag of gifts were like raffle prizes and party favors, which I guess...” Jean says, cringing, “were ornaments.”

They just look at each other, their former discord forgotten, and then Jean leaps into action.

“Okay,” he directs, “get the bag, and put all that broken stuff into it. We'll hide it in the back room. I know what we can do.”

Marco gives him a critical look, hesitating. “I've never messed up my job before,” he says, frowning at Jean. “Maybe we should just tell someone.”

 _“Look, Elf Boy,”_ Jean snaps, taking a few steps forward so their eyes meet, “I may fuck things up by being an idiot, but I'm pretty good at saving my own ass.”

Marco blinks, wondering if he just heard that right. “Wait... did you just say...”

“We don't have time for this!” Jean insists, pointing at the trail of ruined gifts. “Now, are you going to trust me, or not?”

Marco bites his lip, debating. It's not like the outcome could be worse if they told someone. “Okay, fine,” he grunts, frowning mildly. “But this better work.”

A grin lights up Jean's face, and it makes Marco's heart speed up. Goddamn it. Why does he have to look so good when he smiles?

Marco busies himself piling the boxes—cringing as each one tinkles with the unmistakable sound of broken glass—into the torn gift bag. By the time he's gathered everything up and secured them in the back haphazardly, Jean's returned carrying a sizable box of mysterious origin.

“Go put that in the store,” he says, jingling the keys that are hanging off his index finger, “and hide the evidence. You saw how I locked it, so just take the key and lock up when you're done. You're more responsible than me anyway. I'll meet you back at headquarters.”

He swears he must be losing his mind, but Marco does as instructed, following Jean's crazy plan to the letter. After gingerly placing the incriminating bag behind the register and then locking the door carefully behind him, Marco hurries back to the party.

Upon reaching the divider, to his horror, Jean is nowhere to be seen, but he does spot Ymir standing there with a very irritated look on her face.

“Bodt!” she snaps. “What are you doing?”

“Um,” he stammers.

“Get out there! I know you're pissed at Bath Boy, but you're making us look bad.”

Marco just makes a “what can you do?” motion with his shoulders and goes in the direction Ymir is pointing.

And there's Jean, sitting in the Santa Claus throne, ho-ho-hoing it up like a professional.

“A gift for you!” Jean’s saying, smiling behind his fake beard as a mystified looking employee walks up to the Santa chair and pulls something out of the box at Jean’s side.

It’s the box he was carrying before.

“Oh,” the guy replies, wearing a nametag that reads ‘Franz’, “I guess my girlfriend will like this, since she really likes Christmas.”

“Ho, ho!” Jean exclaims, sounding painful in his delivery. “It won’t kill you to be grateful!”

“Uh, okay,” Franz replies, looking a little skeptical as he takes two bottles. “Thanks.”

Marco walks up next to the chair Jean’s sitting in as the next person waits, busy in conversation with a coworker, and snorts.

“You’re brilliant,” he says softly, feeling a little silly considering they’ve been in a fight, but it’s honest. “Uh, thanks...”

“Ho, ho!” Jean cries as the next person slowly approaches the chair. “It’s overtime time! Amirite?!”

Marco drops is head to stare at the cotton balls on his elf shoes, but then he feels a little elbow to his thigh, and he looks over in surprise.

“Thanks,” Jean says simply, looking up through his silly beard to smile a little before turning his attention back to the line of baffled employees.

“Come up and claim your gift!”

By the end of the night, at least 40 bottles of gingerbread lotion have been unleashed upon baffled mall employees, and Jean is looking quite pleased with himself.

The punch bowl is empty, the sound system is about to be turned off, and snow is still falling on the skylights.

“Good night!” Ymir is saying forcefully, shooing people out. “That’s right! It’s time to go!”

Jean is still sitting in the chair as Mariah Carey sings her last round of carols over the speakers, and then it’s over as he pulls off his beard once and for all.

Marco bites his lip as Jean shoots an awkward side eye at him that he’s obviously hoping isn’t spotted, and then turns away abruptly to start unbuttoning the oversized red felt jacket.

They’re never going to see each other again if Marco doesn’t say anything. However, before he can, something unexpected happens.

“I’m sorry about what I said,” he breathes, lifting his eyes to look at Marco. “It came out wrong, and I... really like you.”

His mouth snaps shut, and he just stares at Marco, pulling the hat off his head.

“I got you something,” Marco blurts out just as awkwardly, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks.

He shakes his head, feeling mortified, but retreats to the back behind the divider for his bag. “Wait,” he explains, unzipping his backpack regardless of how silly he feels, and pulling out a small box, “it’s um... it’s here.”

“You got me something?” comes Jean’s soft voice, standing behind him.

“Yeah,” Marco replies just as quietly. “Sorry if that’s weird.”

The flakes are hissing against the skylight above them, but suddenly, the storm seems very far away.

“It’s only weird if it’s gingerbread body lotion,” Jean quips, coming to stand just behind Marco.

Marco doesn’t discuss it any further, pulling out the small box wrapped carefully in bright green paper, and then handing it to Jean.

He looks surprised, staring down at the small package with reverence.

“I’m sorry about what I said,” he repeats the apology, lifting his eyes to look at Marco. "I really like you.” He bites his lip a little, smiling nervously.

Marco smiles in return, replying slyly, “Okay, Santa.”

“God, you’re an asshole.”

“Open your gift.”

Jean’s breath hitches as he does as instructed, and then he just bites stares, staying quiet.

Inside the box, there’s the snow globe is the one they looked at together in the department store. Jean doesn’t even have to ask, shaking it upside down and then watching as the tiny flakes inside the glass sphere swirl.

“Little universes inside tiny worlds,” he says quietly, looking up at Marco finally. “Something like that, right?”

“I really like you, too,” Marco replies in a hushed voice.

Jean just watches the snow globe for a moment, and then looks up at the skylight with the snow tumbling down.

“There’s mistletoe hanging right there,” Marco remarks after a few moments of silence, pointing up at one of the clusters of mistletoe twisted in the garlands above them.

Jean kisses him, pulls the snow globe between them and nuzzles Marco’s neck in a surprisingly affectionate gesture.

“So,” he murmurs, his voice breathless, “what are you doing for New Year’s?”

“So,” Marco echoes, kissing Jean quickly on the lips again, “what are you doing for lunch tomorrow?” He reaches out with a familiar touch to squeeze Jean’s shoulder. “And can we keep going to lunch, even if you’re not still working here?”

“Yeah,” Jean murmurs, smiling more widely as he pulls off his beard, “I’d like that.”


End file.
